


Shed You

by Mozart (BlondeMelancholic)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Age Difference, Comfort Sex, F/M, Nightmares, POV Male Character, Reader-Insert, Sex as Sleep Aid, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, Size Difference, Sleepy Sex, Spooning, well few of us are as tall as he is lbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 09:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6560275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondeMelancholic/pseuds/Mozart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a few ways to make someone feel better after a nightmare, and some ways work better than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shed You

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't sure how i wanted to write bruce wayne smut so i did it in two different perspectives
> 
> [launches into breaking bad quote about painting the same scene over and over and doors that look like vaginas]

It’s not unusual for him to wake up in the middle of the night, to have himself pulled out of a nightmare, but tonight is different. For once he is in the middle of a relaxing dream when he finds himself falling out of it and landing back on the mattress where he had fallen asleep just a few hours before. 

It takes him only a moment to realize the cause of the abrupt ejection: he can no longer feel you. It is shameful for him to admit but he finds it enormously easier to sleep through the night when you are so near, so close. Your body pressed against his, your thigh slung over his waist, your face buried in his neck – yes, so far you and your contact have proven to be obscenely beneficial to his subconscious. At least, you’ve reduced the content of a number of his nightmares and replaced them with new ones, with you and your safety taking the leading role in many of them, but those ones are far easier to deal with when he’s not alone.

He does not turn his head; occasionally he is afraid to find that you’ve vanished, that you were nothing but a figure in some bizarre dream. His hand slides across the mattress, and he finds you mere inches from him when he meets the softness of your thigh. Ordinarily that would be a good enough reminder that you’re still there, still a constant in his life, but something feels different tonight and he lifts himself up to look at you.

You could sleep at your own place if you wanted to, but you like to stay with him, even if he’s never told you about the effect that you have on him. Besides, you had worked so hard to persuade him to sleep with you despite his reservations about the difference in age between you that it had seemed a good reward that you could share his bed; and now that you are his lover, you tell him that you much prefer the high thread count of his sheets to yours, which you had, humiliatingly, gotten from a thrift store. You must be able to tell the difference when it’s fisted in your hand as he takes you hard and relentless, your calf on his shoulder and your hips gripped tightly in his hands.

But tonight his sheets are pushed back haphazardly from your slumbering form, as though you have thrown them off in your sleep. You are lying on your stomach, your face pressed against his pillow as you mumble something incoherently into them. Your fingers grip the bedding so hard that your knuckles are white, and your body as a whole is strained, so tensed, that you seem to be defending yourself from something.

He has never seen you like this before. You usually sleep deeply throughout the night, save for some brief instances of insomnia when you get up and wander around his home. Once he woke and felt the space next to him and, finding it cool, sat up in a stir; he still remembers how you looked when he saw you, a blanket around your body as you stood looking out one of the glass walls. Leaning forward and staring unblinkingly as though keeping watch over him, in case something came out towards you from the enigma of the distant tree line.

“No,” you say suddenly, turning your face away from him. It’s so clear that he thinks you’re awake. Rarely does he hear you so fraught. “No – stop…”

You mumble something else, and he realizes that you’re still asleep, stuck in a bad dream. When he touches your thigh, he’s alarmed to find you trembling a little bit. He tries to shake you, but you remain tensed, your teeth gritted. Through them you say, “No – No – Wait…”

“Hey,” he says, his voice hoarse with sleep. He grips the curve of your hip and gives you another gentle shake. “Wake up.”

But your subconscious is determined to keep a hold over you, and whatever is happening to you inside of your own mind is making you increasingly distressed. He pushes your hair away from your forehead and finds it damp. You’re so far away, balanced on the edge of some abyss – oh – he has to wake you, has to save you. Only one of you should be plagued in your dreams; it would be obscene otherwise.

“Bruce – !” You say his name so clearly that again he thinks you’ve woken, but you have not given up your grip on the sheets. There is a strained and oppressed quality to your voice, as if someone is stepping on your back and crushing you down into the mattress. “Wait – no!”

Your panic send a jolt of stress through his stomach; he can’t hear you sound like that again. He shakes you more roughly than he intends to and says your name, almost commanding you to wake up, to shake off whatever has taken a hold of you. 

Suddenly you’re moving, jerking up off the mattress like a woken cat: your back arches and you’re tensed as if ready to spring. He catches you when you turn over, trying to keep you from moving too fast and falling off, and when he catches your breast underneath his hand, he can feel how fast your heart is beating. There’s a wild and fierce look in your eyes that suggests he’s interrupted a fight you’ve been having, but it softens gradually when he takes your cheek in his palm and turns your face to his.

“It was just a dream,” he says automatically, rubbing his thumb over the soft flesh of your cheek. “You can relax. It was just a dream.”

He’s had many more than you, true, but you are the priority here – always a priority, always _his_ priority. Under no circumstance does he ever want you to feel even a fraction of the troubles he’s had to face, and it seems that that includes imaginary ones as well. Nothing new there; part of his requisite denials at your first few attempts at seduction, besides your younger years, had been the concern that he would taint something about you. There was him, so world-weary and barely suppressing everything that he had experienced, and then you, all determination and full of youthful resilience.

Now, though, there is an aged look in your eyes, and you avert your gaze once you calm down and realize what has happened. “S-Sorry,” you say quickly, pulling yourself out of his warm grip. It is not a reaction he expects – such a thing should end with you in his arms, needing his comfort – and instead you seem embarrassed, ashamed that he has seen you in such a vulnerable position. “What time is it?”

He looks at the clock. A little after three, and when he tells you so, you cover your face a little in shame. “Sorry,” you apologize again, and in the dim moonlight he can tell that you are reddening. “That doesn’t happen that often – well – I’m not used to it.”

“Don’t apologize.” He notices that, in your struggle, a strap of your chemise has fallen rather scandalously off of your shoulder, and he is treated to the view of the love bites he had pressed into it earlier. Inappropriately, something begins to stir; averting his gaze, he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” you reply immediately, seeming shocked that he even asked. “God, no. It was so stupid. Don’t worry about me.”

That makes him feel guilty, restless. It occurs to him that you are reluctant to talk to him about your own fears and problems, knowing that his will doubtlessly surmount yours. Or perhaps you’re afraid to complain, trying to make yourself as competitive as a lover as possible for a billionaire by reducing as many of your flaws as possible. Either way, he feels like shit, and he presses on. “You know you can tell me anything you want.”

“It’s nothing,” you insist. Changing gears to alleviate your own embarrassment, you finally smile and tease, “Go back to sleep, Bruce. Old men need their rest.”

He scoffs and is prepared to settle back down against the mattress when you suddenly ask, “Can I hold you?” And then, quickly, “Just for a second. Until I feel tired again.”

What happened in your nightmare suddenly becomes much more obvious, and he turns over. If you won’t tell him what happened, perhaps this has to be the next best thing; he’s a problem solver and wants to fix whatever is making you like this, but he supposes that sometimes this is the nearest thing to a solution. “Of course.”

You wriggle over to him and gratefully fit yourself snugly against his back. He feels all of you against him at once: your warmth, your gradually slowing heartbeat, your breath against his skin. Ordinarily these are all ingredients to put him back to sleep, but he’s too wired to; he can’t even close his eyes. You have not readjusted your chemise and he can feel the swell of your breasts against his back, and he is getting shamefully hard underneath the sheets. He wonders how he ever managed to resist you, back when he tried to persuade you that he was too old for you. His bloodstream feels like fire as you slowly move your hand up and down his chest as you make an admirable, but failing effort to try to soothe him back to sleep.

The minutes go by, and he can feel that you are no more relaxed than you were when you first woke up. Abruptly you say, “Bruce?”

“Hmm?”

Your voice has regained that oppressed quality. “You’re not going to leave me, right?”

It takes him only a second to process what you’ve said, what you mean, but as he’s turning over you’re already starting to get up. “Forget it,” you tell him with regret, embarrassed again. You can’t even look at him. “That was – very juvenile of me.”

He scoffs; it seems you’re trying to make up for your difference in age by trying to be as old as possible. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t sleep. I’m going to go walk around for a minute, see if I can – ”

Alarmed at the loss of your warmth beside him, he tugs you back towards him. You are clumsy and unbalanced after your sleep spell and you fall back towards the bed with a little squeak. The action is too much for your delicate chemise and the hem catches underneath you, dragging the top downward and exposing most of your chest. You have no time to adjust it as he takes you by the hips and pulls you on top of him so that you straddle his waist. He is struck by how much he needs you, how much he needs to assure you that he is right there, right _there_ for you, and, God, he wants you so badly it’s killing him.

He has already acquainted himself with the belief that love is out of the question, that it’s impossible with the life he’s lived. But the sight of you on top of him like this, your hair falling all soft around that beloved face, your body suspended as you balance yourself against his chest – oh, he can believe for just a second that it’s possible, that there’s no world outside of the bed you’re sharing with him. Again he thinks of you standing by his window, the way your body had been poised as if you were trying to protect him. Yes; you would do anything for him, and fuck, he would do anything for you, anything.

You had worried over him leaving you, but moments like these tell him that he couldn’t even if he had to. That scares the hell out of him, the power you have over him that even you’re not aware of, but tonight it doesn’t. Tonight, he needs to reassure you of that exact fact.

“I want you,” he finds himself saying nonsensically, as if he’s gone back to being a lust-struck teenager. “I _need_ you. I…”

That’s all you need; you relax in his grip and sigh, grinding backwards against him. He moves his hands against your body, always amazed at how much skin he can cover with just one hand. With a man of his size, everyone seems small to him, and the first time he slept with you, he had been afraid that he was going to crush you, just split you in half. But when you’re on top of him like this… 

Three in the morning – devil’s hour, and the way the shadows cut across your body definitely make you look like something from the outer dark. But you’re all sweetness on top of him, the way your eyes close a little when he strokes at you through your underwear, pressing a knuckle against your clit as you start to grind faster against him. You shift so that you can struggle clumsily out of your panties; you’re too eager to get them off completely and leave them around your ankle as you pull his own obstruction down. 

For the hundredth time he tells himself that he shouldn’t be doing this – keeping a regular lover, like you are. You’re young and deserve better than him, better than someone who wasn’t even sure at times where his own moral alignment fell, but if your aching protests are any indication, you don’t quite agree. And you certainly don’t stop to think about such tedious conflicts as you fall onto him, pressing him deep inside of you.

It’s nearly impossible to stay still when he sees that expression you make when you slowly take all of him in. He’s a lot for you to take in and you’re just so _tight_ , your inner muscles squeezing him as you finally came to a rest with all of him inside of you. You readjust your balance on him and begin to move, steady and with a slow tempo that was equal parts agony and bliss. He can see concentration in your gaze along with boundless lust, and underneath that, perhaps just a touch of fatigue; he’s relieved that, if anything, maybe he can fuck you to sleep.

His hand is stroking the smoothness of your back, soothing you as you start to get your rhythm. You arch a little into his touch, like you just can’t get enough even as he’s inside of you; mystified, he moves his hand around to touch the curve of your waist, your hip, your stomach. You sigh and take his hand in yours, pressing it hard against your breast, encouraging him to do whatever he wants to it. Your heartbeat has quickened again and he tightens his grip, kneading your breast and making you cry out. It’s a sound that makes even him lose his self-control and he can’t help but slowly roll his hips against yours, pressing upwards and filling you with every thrust, and your entire body bucks and jerks with the feeling of being just so fucking _full,_ so overwhelmed. 

Your soft thighs are pressing against his hips and you begin to lean backwards a little to ride him faster. It’s a hypnotizing sight to see and yet he wants to see even more from you, wants to _bring_ even more from you. He withdraws his hand from your breast and licks his fingers before dropping them down to your clit, massaging it between them, reveling in the way that you twitch when he touches you. Slowly he rises to where he is sitting up, facing you, so that he is free to kiss you. You’re clumsy in your fatigue but he is hungry, so fucking starved for you even though your last encounter had been a matter of hours ago, and though you are on top of him he is suddenly dominating you; he works to get an orgasm out of you as seriously as if it’s his sole mission in life, and he catches your moan in his mouth as he hits a good spot inside of you.

He can tell that it’s building, _building_ inside of you, and when he’s so relentless, so focused, your orgasm is a foregone conclusion. It’s too much for you and you break the kiss, burying your face into his neck as you just let him work you over. He can’t blame you; he’s the one who’s had a parade of women before you but, oh, he can’t remember them now, can’t even remember their names as he repeats yours like a prayer. It’s all you tonight, enveloping him and working him to climax. All you, only you, it’s only ever _you_ that gets him like this, so fucking worked up and needy and demanding. He tells you as much, just to spoil you, and when he does you get such a desperate look in your eyes that he becomes aware of how much such words mean to you. Of course, he’ll tell you whatever you want whenever you want it, but isn’t it so much better like this, as he strokes you with such lustful fervor that driving you insane seems to be his goal.

With a sudden motion you jerk and lock up around him. The muscles of your thighs tighten and your hips move of their own accord on top of him; you’re helpless in the throes of your own pleasure, moaning incoherently as he greedily takes in your orgasm. Your nails dig into his back as he’s gripping your hips and shoving himself inside of you, which only makes your scratches more violent. In that moment there’s nothing wrong with this at all, just two lovers in bed together, no reason for him to feel anything other than overwhelming lust for you. Lust, and – something underneath the lust, something he feels he can’t tell you, something that scares the fuck out of him but is impossible to lose as he holds you in his arms.

It’s impossible to last long after you come around him: your body contracting and shaking, your breathing heavy and ragged against his neck, your clit twitching against him. He doesn’t fight his own oncoming climax and lets it hit him like a wave, something snapping deep in his abdomen as he pulls you down closer to him and spills his release as far inside of you as he can manage. It’s a sweet, sweet relief and there’s nothing more in life to understand: you’re his, you belong to him, he belongs to you, he needs you, he _needs_ you, he – loves – he…

He falls back against the bed heavily. You’re still wrapped around him and you fall with him, landing on his chest with a soft sound of complaint. You’re boneless in his arms, relaxed after your orgasm and fatigued after letting him take over and fuck you. He can hear you saying his name, saying, as young lovers are wont to do, that you love him and need him and want him forever. He rubs your back to calm you as you bring yourself back down to physical equilibrium, and gradually you stop trembling and shaking all over him. Only when he reaches up to card his fingers through your hair do you turn a little and press lazy kisses against his cheek, against his jawline; you’re still saying his name but it’s sleepy now, almost slurred, and it gives him a wave of masculine gratification, that he can make you so fucked out like this.

It’s tempting to stay in that position forever with you, but after a while he says your name, wonders if you want to readjust yourself. You don’t respond and he realizes that you are asleep, snoozing peacefully as you lie halfway on top of him. He sighs, watching how your body rises and falls with the action. Truth be told, it’s an endearing quality of you – your youthful earnestness, your complete lack of pretense that makes you such a sincere and unpretentious lover. At least, he very rarely meets women who let themselves go so much that they are willing to literally fall asleep on top of billionaire Bruce Wayne. 

It occurs to him that he might have to move you in order to sleep comfortably – not that _you_ will have any trouble with that. But to shift and even gently move you to your own side of the bed, might upset your precious sleeping state, and it was his goal to put you to sleep, after all. To ruin that would be a waste. Yes – moving even an inch and disrupting the sensation of your heartbeat against his chest would be a waste, so he doesn’t.  



End file.
